


Ask Box Drabbles

by rachherself



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Domestic, Genderbending, Multi, Rule 63, i'm just collecting these all here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-27
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-26 16:58:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 5,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1695668
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachherself/pseuds/rachherself
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All of the little short stories I've written from ask box prompts on Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you like these, you can send me more [here](http://grantairricade.tumblr.com/)!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "E/R Enjolras is a nightmare when he's studying."

Enjolras is the literal WORST when he’s focussed, like, if you even so much as _touch_ him, it’s like letting the tiger out of the cage. Courfeyrac swears that Enjolras actually growled at him when he tried to give Enjolras a glass of water one time. Seriously. It happened. Jehan wrote a poem about it, and when he shared it with everyone else Bossuet had to physically restrain Joly from rushing to the flat Enjolras shares with Combeferre and Courfeyrac and _tie him to the bed, he needs SLEEP, guys, he might ACTUALLY DIE THIS TIME._ Everyone else is kind of concerned about this too, but they’ve accepted that Enjolras, while he becomes a terror when he’s working, is some kind of weird superhuman who can actually do this shit and _survive._  
  
He also forgets to eat a lot when he’s busy, so his friends try to feed him as best they can when he’s really in deep with an essay or speech or whatever he’s working on. They mostly make, like, ten sandwiches and put them on his desk when he falls asleep on his books (which is rare since he drinks about a cup of coffee every fifteen minutes, for _days_.  
  
Grantaire is, obviously, the only one besides Combeferre that Enjolras will be decent to when he’s working. Combeferre because he’ll offer something productive to his work, and maybe even look over some stuff for errors, but Grantaire will physically drag Enjolras away from his desk and forcibly cuddle him until he falls asleep. He’ll also pick apart everything Enjolras is writing, especially when he’s been awake for more than 36 hours and is barely writing in a human language anymore, let alone comprehensibly. (Enjolras is secretly grateful. He’ll never say it out loud to Grantaire, but he’ll thank him in kisses and the weirdest kind gestures that mostly make Grantaire laugh, but that melt his heart nonetheless.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Courfeyrac and Jehan making up after a fight (with lots of cuddles please!)"

Jehan almost shuts the door in Courfeyrac’s face the first time he comes over to make up. It was a dumb fight, Jehan knows - Courf made a rather insensitive remark about Romantic poetry and Jehan was having a bad day so, naturally, it got TEN THOUSAND TIMES WORSE - but Jehan isn’t ready to give in and accept the apology, so he looks hard at Courfeyrac through the crack in the door for a long minute.  
  
“No, Courf, go away. I’m not done being mad at you yet.”  
  
He catches a glimpse of Courf’s puppydog eyes before he does slam the door. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t make him feel better.   
  
—  
  
The next day, Courfeyrac comes over with flowers - Jehan’s favourites, the little wild buttercups and Queen Anne’s lace and forget-me-nots that grow in the vacant lot three blocks over - and Jehan’s heart softens a little bit. However, he is resilient, and musters the strength to close the door again. He feels worse this time.   
  
—  
  
The third day, Courfeyrac appears with a first edition of Leaves Of Grass and more flowers, so of course Jehan lets him in because a book like that can’t be left in the danger of his hallway, that shit is dangerous. As soon as the door closes behind Courfeyrac, he takes Jehan’s hand. The poet can feel the hesitancy, and regrets shutting his boyfriend out for as long as he did.   
  
“Jehan, listen-“  
  
“Courf, I’m sorry,” Jehan interrupts. Courfeyrac’s eyes soften. “I was having a bad day, and I got upset, but you know me, I can’t just give in easily. Especially when I’m mad,” he continues, taking the flowers and book gently from Courfeyrac’s other hand.  
  
“I know, Je,” Courfeyrac says. “Come sit with me. And then we’ll have some tea, and you’ll read me your favourite poem from this book. I know you like Whitman, so. I thought this would be okay.”  
  
Jehan smiles, eyes lighting up, his freckles standing out in the crinkles that he always gets on his nose when he’s really happy about something.   
  
“Let me put these in a cup or something first,” he says, walking to the small kitchen and putting the flowers with some water in a Mason jar and setting the bouquet on the rough wooden table he uses as a catchall near the front door. Courfeyrac pulls him over to the sofa, the one indulgence Jehan allowed his parents to give him (he hosts movie night, and where else will everyone sit?).   
  
Courfeyrac’s arm is warm around Jehan, his nose in the other man’s hair, which is curling up in the summer heat, strands frizzing up at his temples and hairline.   
  
“I’m glad we’re not fighting anymore,” Courfeyrac murmurs.   
  
Jehan smiles, nudging his head under Courfeyrac’s chin.   
  
“Me too.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "courfeyrac is trying to cheer up jehan on one of their bad days (expand)"

Courfeyrac is really, really lovely to Jehan. Almost all the time. Sometimes he can be insensitive but he almost never realises it, and most of those realisations come after Jehan has stormed away, eyes flashing. Courf knows it’s bad when Jehan doesn’t say anything to him, because Jehan is as stubborn as a mule, and most especially when Courfeyrac has messed up royally.

This day is particularly bad, because Courf said something and Jehan’s eyes had sparked - Courf literally thought he saw fire, it was terrifying - and Jehan just walked away, calmly and with his back as straight as a steel rod. Courfeyrac’s face had turned red hot and he rushed after his boyfriend, frantically thinking up apology after apology.

They’d met back up at Jehan’s apartment, the door locked and Jehan clearly sitting right on the other side - Courf could see his shadow under the door. Courfeyrac had pleaded with him for about half an hour, singing songs and spouting half-remembered lines of poetry in an effort to make Jehan open the door. When he did, finally, Courfeyrac rushed in and gave Jehan a crushing hug, kissing his hair and his eyelids and his nose, apologising until he’s sure his mouth will bleed. When he pulls back to see Jehan’s reaction, his boyfriend is smiling, eyes still red-rimmed but radiant, and Courfeyrac’s chest loosens a little bit.

They always cuddle for at least an hour after they make up, and Jehan’s not so subtle revenge is making them watch the longest, most obscure foreign art film he owns. Courfeyrac’s grown fond of Ingmar Bergman. He’ll never tell Jehan.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I've read a lot of E/R angst today and am in need of fluff so how about Enjolras just being the nicest boyfriend and Grantaire needing looking after?"

People always think that Enjolras is the difficult one in their relationship, Grantaire knows this. He’s cold, yes, and seems utterly untouchable when he’s at meetings of the Amis, but Grantaire knows that underneath that exterior is a guy who likes to wear Grantaire’s oversized jumpers and who sends Grantaire texts at 3am that consist only of ten heart emojis and a smiley face. Yeah. That’s Enjolras. Dopey, lovey Enjolras. Grantaire’s boyfriend.

Grantaire thinks he caught this cold in the art studio at the university. It’s December, and sometimes Grantaire opens the windows at noon to air out the paint fumes and smell of turpentine from the room and forgets to close them until 1am, when he emerges from his painting and realises that it’s fucking below zero in the room, and he’s an idiot who may actually kill himself this way one day.

But anyway, it’s three days later and Grantaire can’t physically get out of bed because he’s so sore and ill. He grabs for his phone on the bedside table and sends a text to Enjolras:

_To: Apollo  
ground control to major tom, could u bring me soup pleeeaseee xxxx_

The response is fast.

_From: Apollo  
What kind? The butternut squash one from Pret? What’s wrong?_

Grantaire knows Enjolras is worried from the lack of kisses at the end of his reply.

_To: Apollo  
got myself a touch of the plague, nothing serious. come here. fuck yes to the butternut squash._

Within twenty minutes, Enjolras is letting himself into Grantaire’s apartment. Grantaire can hear him pouring the soup into a bowl and getting him a glass of water and a couple paracetamol. When the door swings open, he’s not exactly prepared for Enjolras to swoop down on him like a mother goose. But that’s what he does. Go figure.

"Have you talked to Joly yet? How do you feel? What’s your temperature? _Why didn’t you call me earlier?_ ”

Enjolras says all this whilst straightening Grantaire’s duvet, clearing used tissues into the bin and smoothing Grantaire’s hair back from his forehead.

"Sit up, I brought you soup. And I expect you to eat it all," Enjolras says, helping Grantaire prop himself up on his pillows.

"You should go into nursing," Grantaire croaks as Enjolras gets the bowl and hands it to Grantaire, "you’re a regular Florence Nightingale."

Enjolras cracks a weak smile and watches as Grantaire eats all his soup and dutifully drains his water. When he’s done, he must drift off, because the next thing he knows he’s being spooned forcefully, blond hair in his mouth.

"Enjolras, what are you doing? You’re gonna get sick," Grantaire manages, throat scratchy and raw. The soup helped, but not a lot.

"Cuddling you," comes the muffled reply from somewhere between Grantaire’s shoulderblades. "Want you better."

Grantaire smiles. “Thanks, Enj. I’m working on it.”

Enjolras just squeezes him tighter, and Grantaire drifts back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is, so far, the most popular one on my tumblr. I still don't get it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "What about E/R making up after a fight?"

Grantaire is in the kitchen, holding a plate above his head, soap dripping down his arm and onto the shards of the mug he’d thrown earlier. He and Enjolras had been fighting for a week now, hadn’t spoken in as many days, and Grantaire is  _pissed._  It had started with Enjolras saying something, in one of his moods, about Grantaire’s lack of sobriety, and Grantaire had said something in return and left the Musain, laughing off his friends’ attempts to walk out with him, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it when he got out the door. Enjolras had stubbornly turned away and continued his conversation with Combeferre, studiously ignoring the concerned looks his friends were giving him. Grantaire wasn’t home when he got back.

He turned up two days later, almost unconscious and supported by a worried Joly and a drunk and confused Bossuet. Enjolras’s lips had thinned, his jaw clenched, and he put Grantaire to bed in their room. He slept on the couch. After that, he and Grantaire hadn’t spoken to each other, keeping their distance in their tiny apartment. Grantaire was at his studio more often than before, and Enjolras had holed himself up in his study, locking the door behind him. Grantaire could hear him sometimes, talking to Combeferre on the phone. His voice cracked sometimes, and Grantaire knew that he felt the same way Enjolras sounded. He hated fighting, but they were both stubborn.

But today Grantaire had been stress-cleaning while Enjolras was at work, washing the dishes and wiping down every flat surface in their apartment, changing sheets and spraying Febreeze. And then Enjolras had walked in, and Grantaire had snapped.

"Get the  _fuck_  out of the kitchen, Enjolras,” Grantaire hissed. “Don’t fucking talk to me.”

Enjolras looked at him with wide eyes, corners of his mouth downturned. “Grantaire-“

Grantaire lifted the dish higher. His hand shook minutely. “No.”

"Please, R," Enjolras said, stepping forward and taking Grantaire’s upraised wrist in his hand. "I fucked up. I want to say I’m sorry - will you listen to me?" Grantaire’s eyes had turned stormy. "I want to say I’m sorry," Enjolras continued. "I love you and I am so,  _so_  sorry.” He lowered Grantaire’s hand and took the plate out of it, setting it on the counter.

"I don’t need you to fix me," Grantaire said, voice low. "I don’t want you to think I need to change to be good enough for you."

Enjolras frowned. “You’re amazing, R, I don’t - anyway. I’m fucking sorry and I messed up. And I promise it won’t happen again.”

Grantaire looked up at Enjolras, hesitant. There was still soap trailing down his arm, dripping at his elbow.

"I want to - I don’t want to  _fix_  you, Grantaire, I want to be the glue that helps keep the pieces of you together. You have a lot of jagged edges, and so do I, but I. I love you despite them, I love you sometimes  _because_  of them.” He stepped forward, cupping his free hand around Grantaire’s jaw. “You know I’m awful with feelings but I need you to understand what I’m saying. I hate fighting with you. I hate what you do to yourself because of it.”

Grantaire nodded. “I forgive you, Enj. I fucking - I just don’t. I love you,  _so much,_  and it sucks when you say that shit. I don’t want to think about this anymore, so please-“

He surged forward and kissed Enjolras, unable to articulate what he was thinking. Enjolras leaned in, threading his fingers through Grantaire’s and smiling against his lips. They’d be all right. They always were.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Could we have some E/R domestic fluffiness please?"

"So…. you  _don’t_  need my help?”

Enjolras is sitting at the island, finger tracing the rim of the glass in front of him, watching Grantaire set out all of the ingredients for their dinner. He’d insisted that they needed a date night, and Enjolras had agreed - as long as they didn’t have to go anywhere where there might be annoying people who would put him in a bad mood. He was never the most amenable to the general populace after work, so Grantaire had suggested dinner and a movie at home.

It’s common knowledge that Enjolras isn’t the handiest in the kitchen. Grantaire knows for a  _fact_  that it’s not just a lack of handiness, it’s a lack of any skills beyond toasting bread and making pasta, which Enjolras still manages to mess up sometimes when he gets distracted by a text from Courfeyrac or Combeferre, or when someone is wrong on the internet and he ends up spending half an hour writing an angry blog post about it.

So Grantaire is doing the cooking tonight. He’s making some kind of beef, with noodles and salad and wine he paid more than five pounds for. Right now he’s cutting up tomatoes for a fucking  _caprese_ , like they’re in a restaurant where they get  _appetizers_. His back is to Enjolras, muscles in his shoulders moving as he carefully slices the tomatoes and mozzarella. Enjolras is fairly certain Grantaire has made the pesto himself, and as his boyfriend sets the plate on the island in front of Enjolras, and Enjolras takes a bite of tomato and cheese, he knows that it’s true.

"How do you manage to make cheese and tomatoes taste so good?" Enjolras takes another bite, sucking on the tines of the fork to get all the pesto off. Grantaire shrugs and turns around.

"It’s just the combination of flavours, Enj," he says, rinsing the knife in the sink. "You just happen to like it." He leans over and snags Enjolras’s next bite straight off of his fork. "It’s fucking delicious, so I fully understand." Enjolras wrinkles his nose at Grantaire and chucks a spare almond across the island, hitting Grantaire in the cheek.

Grantaire, always the opposite of Enjolras, is  _amazing_ in the kitchen. He chalks it up to his year working in a kitchen somewhere in central London, running orders and helping out the sous chef sometimes. You learn a lot in that environment. Anyway, he’s the main reason the Amis crowd into his apartment for their informal gatherings. He can make a huge meal, but it all tastes amazing, and he’s pretty sure every single one of his friends has proposed to him at least twice.

He’s at the counter massaging oil and pepper and herbs into the meat when he feels a pair of warm arms around his waist, a sharp chin dropping onto his shoulder. He raises his hands slightly. “I’ve got meat hands, Apollo,” he warns, tilting his head slightly to the side, brushing his cheek against Enjolras’s nose. “Sit back down, and when dinner’s in the oven we’ll open the wine or something.”

Enjolras pushes his nose into the hollow of Grantaire’s cheek, lifting his face to plant a kiss on the curve of Grantaire’s jaw. “You’re the best,” he murmurs, sincere as he’s ever been. “Please never leave.”

Grantaire smiles, leaning over to wash his hands in the sink, Enjolras leaning with him. He turns around in Enjolras’s arms and snakes his hands under the hem of his boyfriend’s shirt. “I won’t,” he promises, and kisses Enjolras in the shadow behind his ear. “Now let me make you dinner. Nothing says ‘I love you’ like some questionably seasoned steak, after all.”

"It’s not questionable, it’s  _delicious,_ " Enjolras insists, "and hurry up. I want to cuddle."

If Grantaire goes a little faster with getting things in the oven than normal, neither of them say anything about it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Courfeyrac and Jehan being the cutest and going on adorable dates and generally just being lovely to each other because they're peeeeeeeeerfect"

Jehan and Courfeyrac are notoriously adorable. The Amis tolerate them being cute around each other just because they (along with Marius and Cosette) are just too lovely to hate for their sheer cavity-inducing antics. They realise this, of course, and one of their favourite date ideas is going to meetings and sitting in the back, kissing and cuddling and staring deeply and meaningfully into each other’s eyes,  _just to piss everyone else off_. Then they go home and fall laughing into bed, recalling exactly how many times Enjolras stopped speaking to look sternly at them, or how many times Grantaire smiled at them encouragingly.

Their second-favourite date is to Shakespeare and Company, and even though more often than not it’s full of tourists and most of their books are in English, they go upstairs and lie on the beds and Jehan reads Courfeyrac pages of poetry, and Courfeyrac pulls books down at random, reading paragraphs in funny voices and sometimes taking photos for American tourists, even though  _technically_  they’re not allowed. They always go for coffee afterward, and Jehan eats exactly two and a half croissants, giving the last half to Courfeyrac, who has just ordered a croque-monsieur and an espresso.

Another standard is photo day. They walk around the city, or a part of the city, and take photos of each other and beautiful things and don’t look at any of them, no matter what. Then they get home and put them all in a slideshow and watch it with a bottle of wine, reminding each other how beautiful they are. Jehan’s photos are mostly of Courfeyrac’s eyes and mouth, his smiles to people who don’t even see it, his enthusiastic expressions when he helps tourists find the right metro line to take, the faint freckles dusting the bridge of his nose. Courfeyrac takes photos mostly of Jehan’s hands, holding things like books and glasses, lifting flowers to his nose to smell them, waving wildly through the air as he tries to describe something. They are pale and freckled, large in their long-fingered glory. Courfeyrac always,  _always_  remembers how they feel across his skin when he pushes the shutter button. They usually devolve into kissing, heavy and soft, by the end of the slideshow.

(They have “normal” dates as well, you know, to the cinema and to dinner, but these are the dates that mean the most, that are uniquely Courf and Jehan, that their friends don’t really understand but they couldn’t care less.)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Can we get some more adorable Courf and Jehan? (sorry they're my favorites)"

Courfeyrac likes going to the park. Jehan always jokes that it’s because Courf is a literal puppy and needs his walkies. Courf responds by licking a stripe up the side of Jehan’s face, causing his boyfriend to retch playfully and shove him.

It’s a sunny Sunday, so they decide to go take a walk. The flowers are just past their peak and the trees are green and leafy. Courfeyrac brought a blanket and a bottle of wine, and they’ve spread it out on the lawn. Jehan is wearing a pair of Ray-Bans that make him look like a movie star with freckles rapidly spreading across his forehead, and Courfeyrac is sure he’s already gotten a tan, even after only an hour. They’re passing the wine back and forth as Jehan scribbles idly in his notebook (actual scribbles. He swears it helps the writing process), Courfeyrac watching through his eyelashes, arms and legs sprawled out, half on the grass and half on the blanket.

"I never want summer to end," Jehan says mournfully, and Courfeyrac has to sit up and tug on his boyfriend’s earlobe.

"It’s not even June yet," he replies, "you’ve got a good few months left."

Jehan shrugs. “I know, but it’s the poet’s curse to care a lot about, you know, the ephemeral quality of nature and life,” he says, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it. “So, I’m already thinking about summer ending.”

Courfeyrac shoves his head onto Jehan’s lap, leaning up and taking a drag from Jehan’s cigarette. “Okay, but. We have wine, and it’s sunny, so let’s focus on the here and now,” he suggests helpfully. Jehan bends down and kisses him. “Okay. For you.”

The wine gets hot as they trade lazy kisses in the sun. They end up drinking it anyway, pulling faces and laughing.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Enjolras, Grantaire and some early morning lazy cuddles"

Grantaire always wakes up to Enjolras’s hair in his face, curly and wild before his shower. It’s somewhat of a ritual, he thinks as he brushes it aside gently, Enjolras’s eyelashes casting shadows on his cheekbones in the morning light coming from the windows.

They’re not wearing anything due to the summer heat, and Grantaire can feel every inch of Enjolras against him, even though it’s practically a million degrees in the bed. Enjolras is an octopus when he sleeps, arms and legs everywhere. Grantaire isn’t any better, though, and they always wake up tangled in each other, even in the oppressive heat, as is the case this morning.

"Hey, Enj," Grantaire whispers into Enjolras’s ear, smoothing his hair back from his temple. "Hey. It’s eight o’clock, love, you’ve got to get up soon."

The reply he gets is a muffled grunt into his collarbone and Enjolras’s spidery fingers tightening around his hip. Grantaire rolls his eyes and sits up, propping himself on the pillows. Enjolras doesn’t like this, and lifts his head. He’s bleary-eyed and his hair is sticking up almost vertically. It’s adorable.

"Why are you moving? You were comfortable," he mumbles to Grantaire. Grantaire just smiles and combs through Enjolras’s hair more thoroughly. "It’s wake-up time, Apollo, and we both have, you know, life things to do today."

Enjolras shakes his head vehemently, his gravity-defying hair going everywhere. “Unacceptable. I reject this. Who said this was okay?” He scoots up the bed, brushing up against Grantaire, the sheet covering him falling dangerously low, revealing the curve of his hipbone and the small of his back, golden in the growing sunlight from the window.

"Come here, then," Grantaire coaxes. "We’ve got a little while." Enjolras shoves his nose under Grantaire’s ear, blowing hot breath onto the skin of his neck. "Can we be John and Yoko for a day? They were protesting, you know, by staying in bed."

Grantaire shakes his head. “Only you, Enjolras, would find a political reason to stay in bed all day.” He shifts his head to kiss Enjolras, who mumbles a small complaint about morning breath but then gives up because Grantaire has never cared about that sort of thing, and Enjolras, as usual, cannot be fussed to give up something he’s currently enjoying just because of a small inconvenience.

They sit that way, trading lazy kisses in the morning sunlight, until Enjolras’s alarm goes off a while later and they get in the shower, not quite ready to stop holding on to each other just yet.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Enjolras and Grantaire skipping out on plans to stay in and watch movies because they're both under the weather."

Enjolras is just hitting “end” on his phone as Grantaire shuffles back into the bedroom, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, a mug of tea in one hand and his phone pressed to his ear with the other.

"Yeah, Ép, I’m sorry… I’m just so sick. Yeah. No, it’s fine. Thanks, babe."

He hangs up the phone and delicately gets into bed, clearly aching from whatever it is they’ve both got.

"You cancelled with Courf?" Grantaire hands Enjolras the mug of tea. "Yeah, it’s fine," Enjolras replies, blowing steam away from the surface of the mug. The warmth in his hands feels nice, but he still burrows his feet under Grantaire’s calves under the duvet.

"Oi, your feet are like  _literal ice cubes_ ,” Grantaire says. It would sound annoyed, but his nose is so plugged up that he sounds like a caricature of himself. Enjolras has to hide a laugh in his tea. “I would say I’m sorry, but your legs are warm.”

Grantaire shoots him a look, nose red and raw at the tip. Enjolras isn’t doing much better. He looked in the mirror earlier and saw that his skin was noticeably paler, the freckles scattered across his face standing out much more than usual, and his nose feels like he’s been rubbing it with sandpaper for the past two days. He leans over to fiddle with the stack of DVDs by the side of their bed that they’ve accumulated during their mutual illness, pulling up a few.

"So, what do we want to watch? I’m personally fine to watch  _A League Of Their Own_  again, but we do have  _V for Vendetta_ and  _The Bodyguard_.”

Grantaire snorts. “You know how much I love Whitney Houston, after all,” he says, leaning over and grabbing the DVDs from Enjolras, “but Tom Hanks is my ultimate man-crush.” Enjolras pokes Grantaire in the cheek. “Besides you, of course,” Grantaire amends hastily.

Enjolras smiles at that, prompting Grantaire to kiss him soundly on the mouth. “Ew, R, I’ve got phlegm everywhere.”

Grantaire smirks and kisses Enjolras again. “Me too, babe. Guess we’ll have to deal with it somehow.”

They end up watching all three movies that night. Enjolras falls asleep in the middle of  _The Bodyguard_ , but Grantaire shakes him awake just in time to see Parliament get blown up in  _V for Vendetta_ , just because he knows it’s Enjolras’s favourite part.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "E/R make out sessions uwu"

Enjolras doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of kissing Grantaire. Ever. Before they started doing… this, whatever it is, he didn’t have much experience. But then they’d kissed for the first time, and Grantaire had moaned low in his throat and ground his hips into Enjolras’s, so he figured he’d done something right. 

They’re on Grantaire’s bed, which isn’t so much a bed as a mattress and boxspring on the floor of his bedroom, and Grantaire has a thigh between Enjolras’s and they’re kissing like they always do when it’s going to lead to something else. Enjolras’s shirt is rucked up around his ribs, Grantaire’s palms rough on the skin of his chest, always moving and brushing sensitive areas that Enjolras hadn’t known existed. Enjolras has a hand twined in Grantaire’s hair, his other on the artist’s back, nails scraping the skin there through his worn t-shirt.

"Mmm, R," Enjolras breathes, pulling back. Grantaire’s head moves down to the hinge of Enjolras’s jaw, sucking a bruise into the fragile skin underneath his ear. "Fuck - I. You’re so good, so amazing…" He trails off when Grantaire’s mouth moves up to his ear to nip at his earlobe. "Yeah, Apollo? You should see yourself," he says, voice low and husky from arousal and years of smoking cigarettes. Enjolras gasps as Grantaire grinds his thigh between Enjolras’s legs, smirking. "You’re so fucking beautiful like this, laid out for me… I want to paint you like this, will you let me paint you?"

Enjolras yanks on Grantaire’s hair, bringing his mouth up to Enjolras’s and earning him a growl, a literal growl. He doesn’t give a fuck, not when Grantaire’s tongue is sweeping into his mouth, teeth nipping at Enjolras’s lips, turning them bright red and swollen, his stubble scraping at Enjolras’s skin. Enjolras is probably the hardest he’s ever been in his life right now, so he scrabbles at his jeans, popping the button open and grabbing Grantaire’s hand, bringing it to his waistband. “Fucking touch me,” he says, and Grantaire kisses him once more, smirking, before doing just that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this has been continued and expanded [HERE](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1694945) if you are interested in reading!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "do you still want lady!amis prompts because how about fem!E and fem!R and lazy sunday mornings"

Enjolras is eternally grateful that she never has to do anything on Sunday mornings. It’s her mandated day off (thanks to Combeferre, who had one day pushed her glasses up her nose, squared her jaw and declared that Enjolras needed at least one day off, for Christ’s sake) and she’s learned in the past few months that it is entirely possible to stay in bed until noon. And then she and Grantaire got together, and noon was pushed back to three p.m., an extended morning where they chased the sunlight across the duvet and read the entire paper, section by glorious section.

This morning, however, Enjolras wakes up to an empty bed. Her hand reaches out to the place where Grantaire usually is, dark hair flung across the pillows, but her side of the bed is cold and empty. Enjolras frowns at the space for a moment and grabs her phone, opening up her messages and, oh, Grantaire has texted her.

_from: R (10:15am) :  
buying bagels, be back in ten, don’t you dare trying to move because, damn xxxxx_

Enjolras checks the time. It’s 10:30, which means Grantaire should be back by now. She sends off a quick reply:

_to: R (10:31am) :  
Come back, the bed is cold and I miss you. x_

She lies in bed for a languid moment, idly braiding a lock of her hair, looking at the strands glowing golden in the sunlight until the door of the apartment opens, followed shortly by Grantaire throwing herself onto the bed, dark curls flying around her face as she bends down to kiss Enjolras soundly on the mouth. Enjolras is slightly disappointed that Grantaire put clothes on to go get breakfast, but her disappointment is tempered by the smell of fresh bagels wafting from the paper bag in Grantaire’s hand.

Enjolras sits up, the sheet around her slipping off. She doesn’t miss the way Grantaire’s eyes flicker to her chest, and Enjolras smiles coyly.

"So, we could have bagels now, or…. we could have them later and do something else instead," she suggests. Grantaire pretends to look thoughtful, even as her hands go to the hem of her top. "I could do with working up an appetite," Grantaire muses, and Enjolras’s grin turns predatory as she puts the paper bag on the table next to their bed.

Grantaire laughs as they both work to undress her, and then her laughter is swallowed by kisses. The bagels have gone completely cold by the time they get around to eating them, but they both agree that it was  _totally_  worth it in the end.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "(you've got me into ready lady!amis things now) what about lady E/R and their first big fight (with making up afterwards though)"

"You can’t fucking say those things, Grantaire," Enjolras is saying - no,  _hissing,_ and Grantaire is pacing back and forth, lighting up a cigarette and puffing angrily at it. They’re outside the Musain after the meeting, the last ones there, as usual.

Grantaire laughs mirthlessly. “I can if you’re full of shit, Artemis,” she says, exhaling smoke with every word. “And you can’t pretend that I’m bullshitting, or that what I say is worthless, like you do  _every single fucking time._ ”

Enjolras whirls around, hair flying around her face. She’s worn it down tonight, and wishes she’d put it up. She looks fiercer that way, less like a child and more like the adult she knows herself to be. “You know I don’t do that, R.”

"Yes, you do.  _Constantly_. Fucks a girl up after a while, honestly.” Enjolras slows down, looking Grantaire in the eye.

"I - you know I listen to you, Grantaire, I just - you help me see my mistakes and it’s hard to accept that I make them sometimes." She picks at her thumbnail, a nervous habit that carried over from childhood.

Grantaire looks up at her, taking a drag from her cigarette. “Yeah, fine. It just feels shitty and I wish to God you realised when you were doing it.” She shakes her head, running her hand through her too-long hair. “Fuck,” she breathes. “Why does this hurt more now that we’re, you know,” she gestures between them, “a thing?”

Enjolras steps closer to Grantaire, as hesitantly as she would were Grantaire an animal. “R,” she begins, then bites her lip. She steps forward decisively and lifts Grantaire’s chin, kissing her in an effort to communicate what she means, that she’s sorry and that she’ll try harder and that she loves Grantaire - though she wouldn’t say that, not now, not since they were so new.

They break apart and Grantaire’s lips are shining, her eyes looking happier than before. “I get it, Enj. Come on,” she says, and kisses Enjolras again, hands winding around her smaller waist and bunching in the smooth cotton of the tee Enjolras is wearing. “Let’s go back to yours?”

Enjolras nods, tapping her nose against Grantaire’s cheek. They walk back to her apartment hand in hand, trading kisses like apologies, Grantaire’s smiles reaching her eyes and Enjolras’s heart feeling warmer with every touch.


End file.
